Début d'un Narcissique
by civilwarrose
Summary: Gaston's childhood and formative years before the war. Every monster of a man was once a troubled little boy. Short series of oneshots.
1. Chapter 1

**Début d'un Narcissique**

 **Beauty and the Beast 2017**

 **Disney owns Beauty and the Beast and its characters.**

...

Chapter 1- School Days

...

He arrived on time, since he was walked to the schoolhouse by his Papa.

"I hate it here," he declared.

"Now, stop that, Gaston! You know you must. An education is very important."

Monsieur Legume let go of his little boy's hand and walked away, leaving him alone with the Headmaster of Villeneuve Boys' School and the other youngsters. Monsieur Durand, the Headmaster, stood sternly at the door of the schoolhouse and ordered the gathered boys to form a single-file line.

The line formed within seconds; a perfect queue from tallest to shortest. Gaston moved to stand behind a boy who was about his age. Two little fellows, likely seven year olds, went to stand behind Gaston.

Looking at the rest of the group, he felt small and weak. He was the third smallest in this school, and most of the others seemed to know each other already. The Headmaster rang his bell and ordered the line to file in and take their desks. The youngest boys had to sit in the very front.

For the next hour, they had to listen to Monsieur Durand read from a book on the history of France. Today, he was reading about the funny-looking man whose portrait hung near the chalkboard. The man had a huge mop of unruly black hair, and the kind of face that Gaston wanted to punch. But apparently, he was the Great King Louis XIV from a long time ago, and he was supposed to have done great things.

There was another portrait of the current King, Louis XV, who was better looking than the funny-hair King. He had a haughty, proud expression and wore a curly silver wig. Gaston gazed at this picture while Monsieur's voice droned on. This was actually Gaston's favorite part of the school day. He called it his 'thinking time.'

During his 'thinking time,' Gaston stared at the portraits of the Kings, or sometimes out the window at the clouds. He thought about how great it would be if HE were a King. He would sit on a throne and tell people where to go, and what to do. He would have a group of men, his 'court,' was what they called it, doing things for him. One man would play music for him. Another would sing songs to him. Another would be an artist, painting a picture of him.

Gaston liked to imagine what he would look like grown up, and as a King. He would wear red, for certain, since that was his favorite color. He wouldn't wear a wig. He'd wear his hair naturally, long and dark and pulled back into a stalliontail. Not a ponytail, a stalliontail. Other members of the Court would bring him drinks and refreshments.

But he wouldn't want to spend all day sitting in a throne in a palace. No, King Gaston would ride his big stallion to faraway places, and go do great things! He would go to other countries and conquer them with his army of soldiers. This was his most favorite thing to imagine- himself, riding a tall horse, leading hundreds- THOUSANDS of other men, on their horses. They would all ride behind him in single file. Gaston would carry the flag of France wherever he went, and make those other countries stop speaking other languages and speak his language. If the Kings of those other countries wouldn't listen, he would order his huge army to shoot them all with their guns!

"Class, it is time for reading and recitation," Monsieur announced. He put the book he was reading down on his desk. "Seven, eight, and nine year olds, take out your primers. Ten years old and older, please read your assigned book in silence! No interruptions!"

A flurry of book pages could be heard throughout the room. Gaston took out his primer that was filled with alphabet letters and words, along with pictures. He turned to the page for the letter that had a picture of a horse on it.

"Louis Chevillard?" Monsieur called on the small blond-haired boy next to Gaston. "Please recite the alphabet, and the corresponding word in your book. Stand up straight, please."

The boy picked up his book and began to recite. He knew all the letters and words by heart, so it only took him less than three minutes to let Monsieur know that he'd mastered his primer.

"Very good, Louis. Your kingly name suits you! You have passed Primer A, so I will give you Primer B." Monsieur took a small book from his shelf and handed it to Louis, who had a proud smile on his face.

"Who shall be next?" Monsieur asked, frowning over the small group of younger children. The Headmaster must have heard a shuffling noise in the back of the room, because he suddenly turned his gaze at the older group, giving them a stern eye. "I shouldn't hear a pin drop! Keep your eyes on your books!" he bellowed at them, and the rustling of feet on the wooden floor fell silent.

He looked back down at the two boys who had their hands raised. Gaston was trying to make himself invisible at the moment. He did not want to be called. He sunk down in his chair while his book lay in front of him.

"Richard Laurent! Please recite from Primer B."

Richard, who all the boys called 'Dick," was nine years old, almost ten. He still struggled and stammered over Primer B, but was able to pronounce most of the words.

"Not bad, Richard. But keep practicing at home," Monsieur said curtly.

"I'll make him practice, Monsieur!" a laughing voice came from the group of oldest boys, who were supposed to be doing silent reading. It was Tom, a boy so big he almost looked like a teenager already.

"SILENCE!" boomed Monsieur. "Talking out of order is forbidden. Thomas, come to the front!"

Gaston gave a sigh of relief for the interruption. It was quite entertaining to watch the bigger boys get into trouble and be punished. Tom, who was about twelve, stood in front of Monsieur with a penitent expression. He didn't have to be asked; he knew the routine. He held his hand out, and Monsieur slapped it with his wooden ruler three times.

"SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!' Tom winced in pain; his hand was bright red. He gritted his teeth stoically as he went back to his desk.

"Gaston Legume, it is your turn. Stand up straight and read Primer A." The headmaster glared at him. Gaston stood on his feet and turned to the first page of the little book.

He knew that the first letter was A, because it was the same letter on the front cover. It had a picture of a little sheep on it. "A- Agneau..."

So far, so good. The next page had a picture of a tea kettle. He knew the word was 'bouilloure,' but he wasn't sure if the letter was B or D.

"D- Bouilloure-"

"WRONG!" bellowed Monsieur.

Anger and shame burned in Gaston's stomach. Did he have to yell? The older boys looked up from their books at him. He could feel all their eyes on his back.

"B- Boulloure...C- Canne..." He looked at the next. The picture was of a flag. He knew it was 'Drapeau,' but what was that letter again? It looked just like the 'Bouilloure' one.

"You haven't learned this yet?" Monsieur said with an impatient scowl. Gaston was so angry inside. He was just about to say it!

'D- Drapeau!" he spat out. Why didn't he at least give him two seconds to think?

It took forever for Gaston to slog through the little book, and he knew he was making Monsieur angry. After many agonizing minutes, he was allowed to sit down, but not without being warned that the headmaster would be talking to his parents about his lack of practice. Claude, the seven year old, went through his Primer A like a breeze. Same with Paul, a very tiny seven year old boy with red hair, who was delighted to be told he was ready for Primer B.

Gaston was miserable for the rest of the day. He knew how to do arithmetic, but he had trouble with the numbers, as well. He copied some of them backwards, especially _deux, trois,_ and _cinc._ Monsieur always made him do it over, calling his figures 'rubbish.'

Finally, the blessed two o'clock came. Gaston could go outdoors for the first time since morning. He walked behind Louis as they descended the short flight of schoolhouse stairs in their line. Once the boys were dismissed with Monsieur's ringing of his handbell, they could get out of the line and mill around the cobblestone street, waiting for their parents. Most of the boys walked to their own homes. Gaston waited for his father to arrive. He took an apple out of his bag and started crunching on it. The other boy standing next to him, Louis, kicked at the ground with his toe in boredom.

"You're a dumbbell," Louis suddenly said to Gaston in a mocking voice.

"What did you say?" Gaston asked with a scowl, stepping closer to him.

"You can't even read. You're a dumbbell. 'Pea-brain Legume'!" Louis laughed, and turned quickly to run away to home, before Gaston could touch him.

"No, I'm NOT!" Gaston yelled in indignation. He watched Louis while he ran away, and quickly bent to pick a small rock off the ground. He went to hide himself behind a parked wagon on the cobblestone street. As soon as Louis had gained some distance from him, Gaston hurled the pebble as hard as he could, at the other boy's legs. He watched as Louis yelped in pain, rubbing the back of his calf where the rock had stung.

"Not a bad shot!" a voice called behind him. Gaston turned around. It was Tom, the big boy whom Monsieur had ruler-slapped in the hand for talking out of turn.

"Don't worry about Monsieur. He's always hated me, too. Just try as hard as you can, and he won't yell at you as much," Tom said encouragingly. "What's your name?"

"I'm _Gaston_ ," he replied, proudly before taking another bite of his apple. He liked his first name, but he hated his last, because it was almost like being called 'Monsieur Bean' or 'Monsieur Pea.' _Pea brain._

"I'm Tom. And you know Dick, he sits by you," Tom said, gesturing to his friend, the one who'd also struggled with his reading a bit. Gaston quietly nodded to both of them.

"You have to keep practicing the books," said Dick in a helpful tone. "My Papa helps me. I got better, and Monsieur stopped yelling at me."

Gaston felt a little better, knowing that at least _two_ of the boys didn't think he was a dumbbell or a pea-brain. He wished that school would have a period where he could show everybody how good he was at killing birds with his slingshot. Instead, all school did was show the world that he was stupid.

The children stood together and chatted idly until two women approached. "Our mothers are here. We have to go now. See you tomorrow, Gaston!" said Dick. He walked up to one of the women; the one holding a black-haired toddler boy's hand. Tom reluctantly accompanied the other lady. It appeared the two mothers and their sons were all very close friends.

Gaston watched as Dick tried to take away the toy wooden sword his little brother was holding. Dick's little brother clung tightly to the sword with a grumpy look on his face. Gaston wished he had a little brother, too. He waited until he finally saw his Papa's tall, handsome form. Where was Maman?

"Come along, Gaston," Monsieur Legume said curtly. "You must take time to practice your primer! I heard you are falling far behind all the others, even the boys who are younger than you! Your Maman is getting sicker, Gaston. Her fever is getting high, she's coughing, and she can barely breathe. It is up to YOU to practice and recite on your own. Do you understand?"

"Oui," Gaston said, feeling very small, and weak.

...

 _A.N.- I wrote this oneshot for a prompt challenge this summer. I hope to add a little more scenes to it, since it ties in with 'There's No Question' and a new story I have in mind. I know, I already have a 1991 Gaston backstory, but 2017's is too fascinating for me to resist._

 _Cover art credit to 'LadyCibia' on Tumblr._

 _-Civilwarrose_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- The Housemaid's Child

...

Madame Legume was very ill. She had caught the terrible disease and was getting much worse. The hired help was told by the doctor not to go upstairs to see her in her bedroom.

"But Monsieur, I went up to see her yesterday...was this wrong of me?" Jeanne-Marie, the cleaning maid, asked Dr. LaFontaine. The man, holding his ugly, black beaked mask in his hands, frowned.

"How many hours ago did you get close to her?"

"Yesterday morning, Docteur. I stood by her bedside and I...I touched her hair. I set some tea down, but she was in no condition to drink it."

The man shook his head. "You must stay far, far away from Madame. The sickness is catching. In fact, I prefer you go home."

That moment, men could be heard yelling at each other outside of the house. Monsieur Legume was home. He was accompanied by his eight-year-old son, Gaston. Gaston's schoolmaster, Monsieur Durand, was outside on the walkway with a stern look on his face. Gerard Legume had been arguing defensively against M. Durand, and it was likely that the schoolmaster had punished Gaston for disrespectful behavior yet again.

The little boy ran inside the house, past Jeanne-Marie, toward the stairway. Dr. LaFontaine reached out a hand to stop him before he could reach the bottom step.

"STOP! You mustn't go upstairs!" he yelled sharply.

"Why?" Gaston asked, his freckled little face giving yet another grownup a look of challenge.

"Son, your Maman is very sick. She's in quarantine. That means no one can be near her, or they- YOU- will get sick. Do you understand?"

"But _you_ were near her. You'll get sick then," the child argued.

The doctor decided to put on his mask, which made Gaston take a step back in horror. He looked like a giant, hideous vulture in that thing!

"I wear this when I take care of her, and pray that it helps," he explained. He took the mask off, and turned his gaze to the maid, Jeanne-Marie. "The boy cannot sleep here tonight. His bed is too close to her room. Could you take him to your cottage?"

"What?" Monsieur Legume exclaimed. "My son cannot spend the night in his own home?"

"Do you want your son to stay alive?" the doctor asked firmly.

Monsieur Legume nodded, defeated. He turned away from the doctor, the maid, and the child, and let out a whispered curse. His beloved Genevieve's life was in peril, and so was that of Gaston- his only son. His own charmed life was now threatened.

Gerard-Yves Legume was the owner of the tavern and inn, an importer of beer and spirits, and the master of this grand lodge of a home. He was a member of minor gentry in Villeneuve, and he prided himself on his associations with Prince Louis-Alexandre, sometimes attending the royal couple's parties. He often indulged in the leisurely sport of gentlemen, fox and stag hunting. He bought the finest clothes and food for his family and sent his son to the elite boys' school. Only the best for little Gaston.

M. Legume turned back to the schoolmaster outside the door. "Now don't you see why my son can't concentrate on reading? Why he's picking fights?"

M. Durand frowned grumpily. "I'll give him another chance, but one more time and he's expelled!" M. Legume watched him turn and leave.

"I _want_ to be expelled!" piped up Gaston. "Papa, why do I need to spend all day in that stupid school? What's so important about reading books?"

M. Legume gave his son a look of fury. He grabbed Gaston's shoulder and gave it a firm pinch. "NO SON OF MINE is going to grow up to be an imbecile! No more of this! Do you hear me? You go to school, and do what M. Durand says!"

The boy tore away from his papa and ran outside. He slumped down under a tall evergreen tree to hide. He didn't cry. Whatever crying he felt inside, he turned to rage. He picked up a rock and hurled it at the side of the house, making a loud, satisfying 'thunk' sound.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that the other boys could read simple hornbooks and primers at his age, while he couldn't tell the difference between a 'B' and a 'D.' The stupid letters all looked the same. Gaston wanted M. Durand to drop dead every time he forced him to humiliate himself by standing up to read the book out loud. When Louis had snickered at him today, he got what he deserved. The sight of the other boy's bloody nose was _so_ worth getting in trouble. Gaston looked at his still-red little hand, where M. Durand had whipped it with his ruler. It still stung, but it was getting better now.

"Gaston? There you are! Are you ready to go to my house?" Jeanne-Marie called out when she found him sitting under the tree. Gaston liked the maid, a short plump woman in her forties with warm brown eyes. She was sweet and kind, and didn't demand much of him. She was always singing bouncy, happy French folksongs as she cleaned the house. He was glad to go with her. If he was somewhere else, he didn't have to think about Maman being sick, or the doctor with the big bird mask, or himself being in trouble again.

...

Jeanne-Marie walked with Gaston through Villeneuve to the other end of town, saying whatever she could to cheer the little boy up. "I can make up a nice bed for you in my cottage in my son's room, Master Gaston. I will have bread and cheese for you, and-"

"You have a son?" Gaston asked, perking up.

"Oui, I have a little boy of my own," said the house maid. "My Étienne is about your age. I mentioned him to you before."

"There's no one named Étienne at my school."

"He doesn't go to school, Gaston. He stays home and keeps his Papa company," she explained.

"Lucky," Gaston muttered.

Jeanne-Marie gave him a sad look. "I don't know about that."

The Lefou family- their surname originating from Jacques' grandfather who had served in the King's court as a comical Jester- was feeling a financial pinch ever since Jacques was injured in a wagon accident. He was a candlemaker by trade, but walked with a cane now and couldn't make and deliver candles as fast as he once did. The family income plummeted. Jeanne now worked as a maid. She could not send her seven-year-old son to the nice school. She hoped that perhaps she could in a year or two. He could catch up, since he was bright.

In spite of her troubles, Jeanne-Marie enjoyed spending her days tidying up in the Legumes' large home. They provided plenty of extra foods she could take home every night, a big, warm fireplace, friendly staff, and plenty of Gaston's hand-me-down clothes for Étienne to wear.

Meanwhile, Gaston wondered if the maid's boy had been kicked out of school- 'expelled'- as M. Durant had often threatened he would do to him. Gaston hadn't learned to read yet, but he had learned something interesting today. He learned that he could spit a stream of saliva about four or five feet by using his tongue and teeth in synchronization. He'd then used his new talent on his victim, Louis, whose desk was across from his. Louis was also the recipient of a sharp right hook from Gaston's little fist after he'd laughed at him.

Jeanne-Marie led Gaston to the door of a small cottage, one of many of the same in Villeneuve. She turned to face him with an enthusiastic grin, as if she wanted the little boy to believe she was leading him on an adventure.

"We've passed the butcher's, and the baker's! Gaston, are you ready to see the home of the candlestick-maker? The best in Villeneuve?" she asked Gaston with excitement. Many grownups talked to Gaston in this kind of tone, but Jeanne-Marie was not being fake about it. She genuinely believed that her husband's candles were the finest in the region. And, she had wanted Gaston to meet her little boy, Étienne, for quite a while.

The boy nodded with an unenthusiastic smirk on his face as Jeanne walked him in. The cottage was small and simply furnished. She greeted her husband, a stocky man in simple work clothes who was carving a candle at a table covered in wax. A pair of crutches were at his side.

" _Bonjour!_ Who is this little fellow?" he asked, looking at Gaston with a kind smile.

"Jacques, this is Gaston Legume. He needs to stay with us overnight. His Maman is very sick, and the doctor said he mustn't go near her. Where is Étienne?"

" _Maman!_ You're home!"

Little Étienne came charging into the family room when he heard his mother's voice. The pudgy little boy with dark wavy hair stopped in his tracks. He stood still at the sight of the new visitor, eyes widened in surprise.

"You're wearing my shirt!" Gaston said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the other child.

"Gaston, that shirt was too small for you. You wore it when you were six. You're eight now, and Étienne is seven," Jeanne-Marie tried to reason.

"You're a THIEF!" Gaston yelled to the other boy, still pointing his finger at him.

Étienne opened his mouth to say something, perhaps a little frightened and intimidated. But then, he thought about what kind of fun game it would be if he were the thief, and Gaston was the guard hunting him down. He wanted someone to play with very badly. So, he raised his hands up over his head.

"Yeah! I'm a thief! You got to catch me and shoot me!" he said teasingly.

Gaston's anger faded away into playfulness. It wouldn't take him long to chase this little shrimp down and get the shirt off him! Gaston will win anytime!

He took off and ran towards Étienne, who squealed " _Whoa_!" in delight and rushed out the back door he'd come in from, his hands still raised. Jacques laughed from his chair while Jeanne-Marie wrung her hands nervously, dreading a childish fight.

"Ohhh, I hope those boys don't hurt each other!" She rushed to the back doorway to watch them. Gaston had already caught Étienne, and had him tackled down in the grass. Étienne giggled and kicked and squirmed beneath him.

"Now take that shirt off and give it back, or else I'll bite you hard!" Gaston threatened in a growling little voice.

"GASTON!" Jeanne-Marie shrieked. "NO BITING! Little gentlemen don't bite!" She said it just as Gaston was opening his mouth and pulling Étienne's trousers up to his knee, about to lay one on his calf and leave a mark. He paused in that position for a moment; mouth open yet still bearing a wicked grin, looking down at his 'prey.' Jeanne-Marie approached him, hoping she wouldn't have to resort to physically pulling him off her son.

"Say 'Uncle.' Gaston demanded, grasping Étienne's ankle firmly. He made a few 'chomping' motions with his mouth.

" _Uncle_!" Etienne exclaimed in defeat, grinning up at the other boy. He didn't care about a silly old shirt anyway. "You win! I'll change and give your shirt back!"

"Good! I win, and ' _le fou'_ loses!"

The boys stood up from the ground and walked into the house, calm and happy, past an astonished Jeanne-Marie. She had been so worried for a moment that the 'problem child' would cause all chaos to break loose in her little house, without his parents and the other two servants to help with damage control. But instead, Étienne had somehow been able to diffuse the tiny bomb that was Gaston. At least for now. He was so enthusiastic to have a playmate, and his friendly, compliant nature had done all the work for her.

...

"I need a gun to be the guard. Let's play that again," said Gaston.

"We can get a stick to make a gun. How about an old candle?" Étienne suggested. Soon, they had acquired two long candlesticks from the candle 'recycling' pile. The two of them ran, chased, and pretended to shoot each other.

'Lefou'- as Gaston referred to Étienne since it was his last name anyway- made quite a funny show of falling down, rolling around and pretending to die. He would always get back up again.

...

That night, Gaston lay in the trundle bed next to Lefou's. In the candlelight reflected on the wall from the other room, Lefou made shadow animal puppets with his hands. Gaston made a shadow gun.

"Here's a rabbit, Gaston!"

" _Bang!_ "

"Here's a spider! I know you can't eat 'em, though."

" _Pow!_ "

"Okay, I'll try to make a stag with antlers. How's that?"

"BANG!"

"Good shot!"

"I know."

They played shadow puppets until their hands were tired.

"Gaston?"

"What, Lefou?"

"I like you. I wish you were here every night."

"I know."

They fell asleep. Gaston did not want to go to school the next day. He wanted to play with Lefou. Jeanne-Marie allowed him, but only for two days; telling M. Durand that he had a fever. It was a little white lie.

The third day, Jeanne-Marie walked him to school. That afternoon when M. Durant dismissed the boys, M. Legume picked Gaston up. His eyes were red and bloodshot.

"Papa?" Gaston started to say.

"Maman died. She will never wake up again," his father simply said.

...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3- Thirteen (part 1)

...

 _A.N. - This chapter ended up being very long, so I split it into two parts. It will continue in Chapter 4. I also raised the rating of this story from K+ to T._

 _..._

"Son, now that you're old enough, you're ready to join me on my hunts," Monsieur Legume said to Gaston. He was warming his feet on the hearth after a day of managing the bookwork for his tavern and inn.

"I am?" Gaston asked, trying to keep his voice deep in order to not sound like an excited baby. He had been waiting for this for so many years.

"Of course you are. We're heading out at the crack of dawn tomorrow. It will be a _long_ trip this time, too. The east mountains, even farther east than Lyon and Villeurbanne. Since I saw you take down that goose from the sky the other day, I decided to put you to the test. There's stag and boar waiting for us," his father said in a nonchalant tone.

Gaston immediately went to his room and began packing. He was beyond thrilled. He was so eager for this trip that he had trouble falling asleep that night. At nearly one in the morning, still unable to sleep, he got up and went to the kitchen to find some fruit or eggs to curb his hunger. After eating a few hard boiled eggs from the bowl on the sideboard, he wondered if Papa was home, or if he'd gone to the pub. He tiptoed up the stairs, to the bedroom his father used to share with his late mother. He peeked in. No one was in the bed, and it was still made up tidy just as Jeanne-Marie had left it.

Papa was probably spending all night over at the tavern again, he surmised.

Well, if Papa thought Gaston was old enough to go hunting with him, then he ought to be old enough to hang around at the pub late at night, just as he did. He put on his boots and coat and set off on the short walk from his family's manor house to the tavern and inn in the middle of town.

Gaston opened the door, descended a few steps, and entered the warm and muggy room. The establishment smelled like pipe smoke, beer, and the sweat of hard-working people. At this late hour there were only about three or four men lounging around at tables.

A middle-aged man with a beard, named Martin, was the bartender. He immediately noticed the young boy coming in and shook his head sternly.

"I'm closing now! And you're too young to be here anyway. Go home to bed, son."

"Aww, come on, Martin! Don't you know whose kid this is? It's Gaston! Gerard's boy!" drawled Henri, the pub's most loyal customer. A shameless barfly, the man had no wife or children and so he spent every single night there nursing his drink until Martin shooed him out.

"Here, kid, have a taste. I'm done with this," Henri said, pushing a half-full mug of beer across the table.

Gaston smirked in mischief at the man, feeling like he had a right to be treated like an adult by somebody for once. "Okay," he said, taking the mug and sipping the warm, foamy beer. It didn't taste very good to him. Strongly bitter, with a weird aftertaste.

"Chug it down, boy!" Henri laughed, showing his rotten teeth. Gaston drained the mug. He didn't like the taste, but it made him feel warm and woozy, with the sense that he'd done something very forbidden and adult. Papa had allowed him to have fine red wine at dinner sometimes, but wine that didn't have the earthy, robust essence of manhood that beer did.

"So, where's my father?" Gaston asked bartender Martin when he finished. "He's not at home!"

Martin evaded the boy's eyes, and shrugged his shoulders. "Thought he left an hour ago."

"Is he with Yvette?" Gaston demanded, his hazel eyes narrowing in inquiry.

Martin, even though he was well over thirty years this child's senior, felt cowed and intimidated at his question. The youngster had such a powerful air; a precocious sense of self-importance. Sure, this was likely the result of him being a typical spoiled, rich, only child. But there was something about the piercing look in Gaston's eyes, and the set of his mouth and jaw which indicated 'leader,' even at this tender age. So he told him the truth.

"Oui, Gaston. He is."

Madame Yvette was Gerard Legume's favorite employee, a barmaid. She was a widow, forced to find some kind of situation to support herself. M. Legume hired her not so much for her efficiency at serving drinks, but for her pretty face, long red hair, and curvaceous figure. Gerard had threatened to fire her several times because she was too forgiving, allowing men like Henri to have free drinks when he ran out of money or 'forgetting' to collect tabs. When she'd burst into tears in front of her boss one day, Gerard agreed to keep her and even raise her salary- but only under certain provisions.

Gaston knew where to go. He walked out to the back of the barroom, into a dank hallway leading to the storage room. He found the door that led to the inn rooms upstairs, where he didn't need a key. Luckily, it was open.

Gaston very quietly went up the creaky wooden stairs, in pitch darkness. He heard voices, so when he reached the second floor he followed the sounds. The hallway of the inn floor was also dark as ink, and he nearly tripped and fell on the top stair, losing his balance and leaning on a wall to steady himself. His eyes finally caught a tiny glow of light on the floor, from a door's bottom crack.

He heard his father's voice, but he wasn't talking. Gaston felt a blush creep over his neck and cheeks. His Papa was groaning- louder and louder. It almost sounded like he could be in pain, but it wasn't pain, quite the contrary in fact. He already knew what it was, because he had just started experiencing those kinds of physical feelings in privacy under his bed quilts at night. Luckily, his room was downstairs while Papa's was upstairs.

He walked to the source of the light, and the voices, feeling embarrassed and warm under the collar. His father groaned again, and muttered some crude words to whoever he was with.

"Gerard...please, you're hurting me." It was Yvette, her voice muffled in a pillow.

"Shut up!" his Papa growled, and Gaston heard a sharp slap, and the woman's whimper of pain. "C'mon, be a good girl."

Gaston was intrigued. He put his ear on the wooden door so he could hear it better, and wanted so much to find a knothole to peek into so he could see. He even turned the knob, but it was locked. The lovely Yvette was naked, he knew it. He never got to see a naked woman before, and the thought of this happening only a few meters away behind a closed and locked door gave him a feeling of thrill and excitement. Papa was a man, and in just a few years Gaston would get to be a man, too. He would finally get to do what Papa was experiencing. Except he'd choose even better-looking women than Yvette!

After his father let out some final, heaving breaths of satiation, Gaston heard the woman sniffling.

"Don't you like me?" Gerard was saying in a teasing manner.

"I do. I l-like you," she answered, not sounding very happy or loved.

"Now quit crying, get dressed and go home. Do you want a job or do you want to live in the streets?"

Gaston knew he ought to leave, but then he wanted to challenge his father with the notion that he wasn't a little obedient child tucked in at home sleeping. He stepped away from the door and went to the end of the hallway, hiding in the darkness.

The door finally opened, letting the light from the candle inside to cast its glow on the walls of the hallway. Gaston scrunched to the farthest corner to stay hidden. He saw Yvette walk out, her red hair down and messy, dressed in her white peasant blouse, long green skirt and barmaid's apron. Papa followed her holding the candle, now dressed in his grey waistcoat and breeches, his black hair in a disheveled ponytail. He blew out the candle before the couple descended the main stairs, and Gaston was left in pitch blackness again. He followed them, his steps as light and quick as a mouse's.

Gaston wasn't very big yet; he was five foot four and slim in build, so he was able to follow his father and Yvette down the stairs in stealth without making any loud heavy stomping noises. Once Gerard opened the door and let Yvette out into the cool spring air, he was about to close it and lock it. Gaston reached the bottom step and rushed outside, colliding against his father's tall and sturdy form with a loud yell of " _Bonjour!_ "

Monsieur Legume was startled and spooked. He jumped back, eyes widened until he recognized the culprit. He dropped his candle on the ground.

"Wha- what the hell? _Gaston_! What are you doing here?"

"Had a fun evening, didn't you, Papa?" Gaston said in mock cheer, arms crossed over his still-small chest.

"Why aren't you home?" M. Legume hollered.

"I was about to ask the same thing," Gaston replied. He looked over at Yvette, who appeared mortified. "Bonjour, Madame Yvette. Someday, you'll find a better man to entertain than him! His own _son,_ maybe." He gestured to himself with an air of cockiness.

M. Legume did not like his ego brought down in any way, and especially not by his child. He grasped Gaston by the lapels of his coat with both hands and shook him.

" _Shut up_! Shut up and go home!" He shoved the boy hard, with such force that he fell onto the muddy ground.

Yvette gave Gerard a hurt look, as if she wanted to say something, but knew that if she did, she would be thrown out of his employment and left with nothing. She had no choice but to turn and walk away, to her little cottage down the street.

Gaston got up and brushed the mud off his coat and trousers. "I was listening to you two up there," he said in a still-impudent tone.

"You're staying home tomorrow!" his father hissed. "I take it back. You will _never_ go hunting with me and my friends! You hear me? You're acting like a stupid little shit. No matter how much you can delude yourself, you're still a half-illiterate piece of dirt. Forget about ever going!"

The elder Legume stomped on home, not saying another word. Gaston, enraged and upset and angry with himself for letting his curiosity get the better of him- and wishing death upon his father- held back and kicked his foot hard against some wood trim on the building's wall. He kicked it once more, so that the wood split into two pieces.

"Get on home, or I'm locking you out of my house _forever_!" M. Legume bellowed. So Gaston had no choice but to follow him to the house. He went into his room, making certain to slam his bedroom door as hard as he could.

"Don't slam the goddamn door, you little perverted creep!" M. Legume yelled. Gaston punched the wall with his fist, wishing there was a living creature in his room that he could murder. A spider, a mouse, anything. With a frustrated sigh, he flopped on his bed to sleep.

...

The next morning, Gaston woke up, and his father had already left on his multiple-day hunting trip without him. Although he was terribly disappointed at being left behind, and unable to prove to his father now that he was a good hunter, he realized he had the whole house to himself- for now. But there was nothing to do.

He went to the front door and tried to open it, but he couldn't. His father had chained the door shut from the outside in, likely using his iron padlock. He went to the rear cellar door- same thing.

Gaston cursed and swore to himself. So he was grounded and locked in his home, like an animal, for four or five days? He wanted to kill his father. He wanted to shoot him dead with an arrow to the neck! At least the fireplace was still burning, and Papa had left him a pile of firewood and matches. He had provided enough food for a few days as well.

But he would not give up trying to escape soon. He was Gaston. Isn't that what Lefou always said to him? 'You can do it! You're Gaston!' Even if it came to unpleasant things like learning how to read at school. He eventually was able to read at a nine year old's level at age thirteen. It was enough for him to be able to read signs and simple directions, even though he was still at a handicap when it came to books. He failed every history test Monsieur Durand had given, and the headmaster's disdain of him for being the class 'dunce' was never concealed.

Gaston considered breaking one of the windows, but there was no way he could get them fixed by the time his father returned. He decided to go upstairs to the attic room. It was possible he could take out the tiny window up there, squeeze himself out, and try to climb down the house from the roof.

He rushed upstairs and went to the door opposite of his father's bedroom. It led to the storage were still some smoked meats left hanging on strings to feed the family for the winter. At least he wouldn't starve in his 'prison.'

He pulled down the trap door and climbed the latter to the attic. It was cold here, far from the fire's warmth. Gaston went to the small window and turned the rusty metal crank to see if the shutters would open. They did! The idiot had forgotten to lock up the attic window. Excellent! He forced the window as wide open as his adolescent boy's growing strength could muster. Chilly air greeted his cheeks and nose. It was almost springtime, but not yet.

He put his arms out in front of him and squeezed as tightly as he could through the window, leaning forward until he could reach the rough shingles of the roof a few feet below. It took about five minutes, but Gaston was able to grasp the line of shingles, pull on them with his hands, and wriggle his entire body through the window. He tumbled a bit on the sloped roof. Now, he had to find a way to get down.

It was a partly cloudy, crisp day, a few late-winter snowflakes dancing in the air and landing on Gaston's hair and coat sleeves. He decided to just sit on the roof for a while and enjoy this bird's-eye view of Villeneuve.

The Legume home was built on a hill slightly higher than the rest of the village, and he could see the roofs of the other houses and shops, Papa's tavern and inn, and even hear and see a few of the people milling around. He tried to identify and find familiar people, but could only make out the baker, because of the cart he pushed around.

He wondered if Lefou would come by. It was possible that the twelve-year-old might stop over. His mother, Jeanne-Marie, had been told she didn't need to come to clean for the duration of M. Legume's hunting trip. But Gaston remembered that he had _told_ Lefou that his Papa was going to take him hunting yesterday, before the maid's son had left for home. Lefou was now a part-time servant boy himself- hauling wood, cleaning out the Legumes' fireplace and lower chimney flue, sweeping and carrying out the ashes. He did the chores that his mother did not want to do. Jeanne-Marie paid her own young son part of her salary for his help.

Gaston teased him about it, calling him 'Cinder-Fella.' But Lefou wasn't offended, he'd say that he was 'as lucky as can be' to get to spend so much time at Gaston's.

It was doubtful, though, that he would come today when he knew that no one was home. Gaston was at a loss of what to do. Perhaps he could just sit on the roof until someone saw him.

He finally saw three familiar guys. Well, make that _two_ guys, and one little snot-nose baby. They were walking towards the river, carrying fishing poles and bait.

Gaston inhaled a deep breath, and yelled at the top of his lungs. "TOM! DICK!"

The boys kept walking. He yelled out to them again. "TOOOOM! DIIIIIICK!"

He saw Tom, the biggest of the three at age seventeen, turn his head and look around. Then he waved, acknowledging that he heard someone call him.

"HEY! IT'S MEEEE! GASTON!"

He watched Tom and Dick walk farther and farther away to the river, with Dick's kid brother, Stanley, tagging along after them.

Anger and resentment burned in his heart. If he had his bow and arrows, he might not be able to resist trying to shoot at them. Probably good that he didn't.

Tom and Dick _used_ to be decent and good friends of Gaston's. They _used_ to defend him against Louis' taunts, and sometimes Gaston would urge Tom and Dick to gang up on the teacher's pet and pull his pants down in the schoolyard.

But of course, Louis squealed to M. Durand. Tom, Dick, and Gaston were all given a one-week suspension as punishment, with the threat of permanent expulsion. It led to Gaston's father being infuriated, because he had no option but to pay Durand twice the tuition in order to allow Gaston to stay in school. Tom and Dick's parents, however, didn't have money to bribe Durand. So Tom and Dick were expelled, and their careers at Villeneuve Boys' School were officially over.

It didn't bother the two all that much, because now Tom was apprenticing as a blacksmith and Dick was apprenticing as a carpenter. But their parents were angry and disappointed, and told their respective sons that they didn't want them associating with 'that Legume boy' any more. The two were still civil and polite enough to him, but they tended to ignore him for the most part and stick with each other. They kicked Gaston out of their tough-boy 'trio' and replaced him with- of all people- Dick's little brother who still carried a ridiculous toy sword around and sometimes smelled like his mother's perfume.

It was humiliating.

He hated doing this- _wallowing_ in this kind of despair, but as he sat with the chilled wind stinging his ears, he began to hear in his mind all of the voices of his life, his past, that told him he was nothing.

 _'You're still a half-illiterate piece of dirt! Forget even going!'_

 _'You have failed every one of your history exams, Legume. You're lucky I don't employ the dunce cap. I'm simply too KINDHEARTED to run my classroom under the old barbaric methods.'_

 _'Pea-Brain, am I correct in hearing that you flunked everything? Why are you even IN this school?'_

 _'Gaston, your father wrote a note for you on the door. Didn't you read it? Oh! I guess I forgot...'_

The last of those was from Lefou's mother Jeanne-Marie, the one adult who was kind to him. But even _that_ stung.

Gaston felt he had almost no one on his side. And now he was alone, forgotten, left to sit freezing on top of the godforsaken roof. There was hardly anyone left in the world to give him praise or make him feel the slightest bit good about himself. Except Lefou.

It hurt Gaston's pride that all he had left was the maid's son. The kid was a year younger, a head shorter, and he didn't seem all that interested in joining a man's world yet. Gaston's body and mind were going through all kinds of confusing and exciting changes now, and Lefou hadn't caught up, nor could he relate. There were things Gaston couldn't talk about to him. Lefou didn't share Gaston's new obsession with naked women, for example. He didn't want to try and taste a beer. Fortunately, he still loved going out to the woods with him on their _own_ little weekend hunting excursions. He still made medals and prizes for Gaston, and gave him constant verbal affirmations.

 _'That was the greatest shot I ever saw! Just- wow! You took that goose from that high up!'_

Gaston wondered if he were to call out his name, if he would actually hear him and come over. It didn't hurt to try.

"LEFOUUUU!" he yelled, once, then twice.

He waited for a while, but the boy didn't show up.

He decided to try to find the easiest way down to the ground. He slid further down the slope of the roof, and realized that he was still over twenty feet up. If he jumped he'd break a leg- or his neck, if he wasn't careful. He sat on the edge of the roof with his feet dangling down, hoping for any kind of human attention from the village out there.

But unfortunately, life in Villeneuve was too busy for anyone to notice that Monsieur Legume had neglected to take his thirteen-year-old son along on his hunting trip. Horses neighed, food sellers and customers wrangled, ladies and girls did their wash despite the cold, and as the day progressed it became colder. The snow began to fall thicker.

Even the mighty young Gaston felt defeated. He was too cold to sit up here any longer, and too chicken to leap down from the roof.

No! He was _not_ chicken! He was _not_ cowardly! He leaned forward, picked out a soft-ish looking spot of grass now being covered with white fluffy snow, and jumped.

 _Crack!_

He landed hard- much harder than he imagined. Pain shot through his lower right leg and foot, and he found himself flat on his back. Gaston screamed out in agony, clutching his ankle. It was broken. It _had_ to be broken. He felt as if his back may be broken too, since he landed on it a split second after the initial impact of landing on his feet.

Now what? Was he supposed to lie here and die? _Never!_ He wished he had taken the coward's way of going back through that attic window, to the safety and warmth of the house. Now he was where he so desperately wanted to be- outside. Out of the 'prison' of his locked home.

But instead, he only wanted to be back _in_ his house again, warm, dry, and in the comfort of his bed, or Papa's chair by the fireplace. He stared at the air above him from his spot on the ground, seeing a bright dove-grey afternoon sky, with the white snowflakes getting larger and larger. Snow fell onto his face, and in his eyes, chilling him to the bone.

He used all the strength his arms could muster and crawled through the wet snowy lawn, inching forward little by little, trying to work through the pain. After what seemed nearly an hour, covered with snow and his hands and feet frozen and just as painful as his injured ankle, he reached the front door. It was securely fastened with its thick chain and padlock.

"Lefou!" he cried out hoarsely, in a last ditch effort for help, or at least some bit of human compassion for his anguished soul. _Where are you, Lefou?_

 _..._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Thirteen (part 2)

...

Gaston lay on his stomach in front of his own door, staring at the padlock until he realized that this situation wasn't as bad as he'd thought.

With a tremendous show of determination, gritting his teeth against the pain racking his body, he struggled to his knees. He raised himself up and gripped the iron padlock with his nearly frostbitten fingers. It felt like ice. There were numbers on the lock. He had to use the combination.

Papa had him use this same lock a few times to secure the house or the horse stable doors, and so he had told him the combination. It was Gerard Legume's own birth date- 3-10-19, for March 10, 1719. Papa's thirty-ninth birthday was soon coming up. Gaston hoped to wrap up a batch of horse dung and tie it with a ribbon for a gift. He thought that would be most appropriate, and would endure any physical pain for the amusement it would entail.

Thankful that he knew the combination, he turned the lock a few times, hissing in pain as his fingers clumsily missed the little marks again and again. The numbers were always difficult for him to read, causing him to get mixed up. Especially the numeral '3.' He blinked his eyes, willing the sting at the back of them to go away. He couldn't cry, he was a _man_! And not just any man. He was _Gaston!_

On the ninth try, he missed the '19' mark once again. He screamed, cursed, and pounded on the lock with his knuckles. They cut and bled. Somehow, the sight of his own blood made him feel a little better.

He tried again. He could _do_ it. No beast of a padlock with tiny numbers could stand against him! He had to relax and take deep breaths, and slowly, _slowly_ turn the lock to the exact line of the number. He focused on the number 19, lined it up, and with his tongue hanging out of his mouth in concentration, he pulled on it.

It popped open.

 _"Yes!"_ Gaston cried out in victory. He tugged on the heavy, ponderous chains until they fell to the ground, and pushed the door open. He welcomed the warmth as he crawled on the floor- from the front hall to the sitting room to his bedroom, leaving a trail of blood and wet snow on the wooden floor. He reached his own bed and hoisted himself up into it using his less-injured foot, throwing the covers over his head.

He slept, and slept, and slept some more, only waking to crawl to the privy and back, which was torture. He slept the rest of the day, through the night, and late into the next day. Once he was awake enough to stay that way without drifting back into odd dreams again, he realized he was famished.

Those delectable smoked meats he craved were upstairs in the storage room. He recalled that there was a bowl of eggs, baguettes, some apples, and a wheel of _fromage_ left for him in the larder of the kitchen. And probably a pitcher of warm milk. Most of those things were likely spoiled; even the baguettes were hard as rocks by now.

Unable to find any more strength to get out of bed and crawl to the kitchen, Gaston lay in suffering. The effects of injury, hunger, thirst, and cold kept him in his bed for two horrible days, until finally- _finally_ there was a knock on the front door, followed by the sound of it opening on its hinges.

"That's funny- I thought Monsieur had padlocked the door," said a woman's voice. Jeanne-Marie!

" _Jeanne-Marie_!" Gaston croaked out in a weak voice.

"Did you hear that, Étienne? I thought no one was here! It must be my imagination, because they won't be back until Tuesday! Sweetie, can you please take the brush and shovel and check the ashes in the fireplace? Make sure the flue is clear? Then we'll go back home."

"Sure, Maman."

Gaston's heart was set to explode with relief. _"Lefou!_ " he cried out, as loud as his hoarse voice could carry.

"Gaston? Maman, that sounds like Gaston!"

"But Étienne, I thought he-"

Lefou took off and ran as fast as he could, to the source of the voice calling out his name. When he entered the bedroom, his eyes widened in shock.

"Lefou...you're here..." Gaston croaked, never happier in his life to see his shrimpy best friend.

" _Gaston_! Why are you here, and not on the trip? You...uh...you...don't look so good."

"I...broke...my leg, and I..."

"Gaston?" Jeanne-Marie had entered the room, and she was shocked to see the boy in such a sorry-looking state in his bed.

"You're back? Where is Monsieur?" she asked.

"I...never went with...Papa," Gaston managed to say.

"You _didn't_? What have you been doing all this time?" asked Jeanne-Marie.

"You broke your leg?" asked Lefou. He reached out a hand to touch Gaston's legs, first one, then the other.

" _Ahhhhh!_ " Gaston screamed in pain when Lefou touched his right leg. "That hurts!"

"Sorry! I didn't mean to-"

"Oh my God! You're alone? And injured?" Jeanne-Marie exclaimed. "I'll get the doctor! Étienne, stay here and keep him calm!"

While she was out, Lefou listened as Gaston slowly and painfully recounted the events of the past few days- being left behind as punishment for sneaking up to the inn, being locked in his own house, climbing out onto the roof, jumping down, busting his ankle, and finally letting himself back inside on his own. Anger and bitterness boiled within him as he finally got the chance to talk about it. He had no other outlet to take it out on, except for the small boy at his side.

"I called and called you! I yelled out your name _so many times!_ Why didn't you come until now?"

He glared at Lefou with a look as blaming and intimidating as he could, although mixed with abject pain and suffering. He watched his friend's eyes turn red and well up with tears, his lip starting to quiver.

"I'm so sorry! Gaston, I _never_ meant to not come when you needed me! I wish I could have heard you, but my parents made me stay in!"

"Why?"

"I...I had a cough and fever on Friday and Maman and Papa were worried, 'cause they always worry when I'm sick, 'cause they think it could be the _plague_ coming back again!"

Gaston winced through his pain and arranged his face into a sneer. "Your Maman- _and_ your Papa- were _worried_ about you?"

Lefou nodded and sniffled. "Yeah."

"Well, don't _you_ have the charmed life," Gaston spat.

"What do you mean? Charmed life?" Lefou asked, truly confused. He wiped one teary eye with the back of his hand.

"Lucky. _Privileged!_ "

Lefou finally realized what he meant. He _was_ more privileged than the richer boy, but not in status. He still had his mother, and a poor yet kind, humble and soft-spoken father. Not a father like Gaston's.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to tell you why I didn't hear you and couldn't come over-"

"My father left me alone here to DIE!" Gaston raged, his eyes stinging and burning. _Damn, do not cry! Not in front of him!_

 _"I'm sorry!"_ Lefou sobbed. He put his head down against Gaston's shoulder and reached out to caress his sweaty, messy hair. Comforting, sincere words poured from his mouth. "Is there anything I can do for you? I will never leave you alone like that again! You're my best, best friend, Gaston, and I'll _always_ be here for you! I...I..."

"You _what_?" Gaston's tone was kinder, back to normal.

"I'll...um, always be here for you." A look of embarrassment crossed Lefou's round little face. Perhaps this was a bit too much mushy sentiment for a now twelve-year-old boy to be expressing to his best buddy.

"Thank you, Lefou. I'm glad...you're here. I'm just so... _pissed_ at my father for not taking me on his trip. And locking me in my house!"

"I know. I know," Lefou soothed him. "You'll be taken care of soon. Just rest, and relax. The doctor's coming. Do you want me to get you something to eat?"

"Yeah. Some eggs, maybe, or apples. There's smoked meat upstairs, that's what I really want. And a glass of water."

"Okay. I'll get it right now!" Lefou said, with the urgency of a life and death situation. He rushed to collect some food and water for his weakened friend.

In a few minutes, the doctor and his assistant arrived with Jeanne-Marie. They examined Gaston's ankle as he yelled in agony, and told him it needed to be set into a splint. The doctor said if Gaston were older, he would have been lame or crippled for life, but since he was so young and still growing, his leg should return to normal.

...

A day passed- a very snowy and sleety one, and then another. Gaston's leg was set and he recovered in bed with the help of Jeanne-Marie, Lefou, the family's cook Madame Noir, and the doctor. Monsieur Legume was supposed to arrive home with his two friends at least by Wednesday. Thursday came, then Friday. It was nearly the second week of March.

On Saturday, the Legume home received a visitor. Jeanne-Marie answered the door, and was relieved to see one of Monsieur Legume's hunting buddies, Monsieur Moreau.

"Monsieur Moreau! You're back from the trip! Where is Monsieur Legume?"

The man took off his hat, a dark and pained expression on his face. He had grown a scraggly beard and his face was red and wind-burned. He didn't look physically well at all.

"May I come in? I need to speak to Gaston."

"Oui...yes, you may," the housemaid said, confused.

Jeanne Marie watched the man enter Gaston's room and shoo his young friend Étienne out, as if he were a troublesome fly. Once the other child was out, Monsieur Moreau closed the door behind him.

"Maman, what's going on?" Lefou asked.

"I- I don't know..." Jeanne-Marie said, worried. "Gaston has been in big trouble with his Papa a lot of times, but why would Monsieur Moreau be the one to..." She trailed off, realizing that babbling would not be of any help.

She and her son could hear the man's pained, grief-stricken voice through the door, explaining something to Gaston. Moreau finally came out, and faced his friend's loyal domestic with a look of sorrow.

"Madame, the blizzard hit the mountains really hard. We...the wagon and hunting party...we were stranded. I decided to turn back and ride home, but Gerard and Jean-Paul wanted to stay and wait it out. They had bagged a lot of game. I went to get help. I found Jean-Paul, he was alive. We looked for Gerard...and we found him with his wagon and horses. He died."

" _Oh, no!_ " cried Jeanne, tears welling in her eyes. She grieved her employer, but most of all her heart went toward his orphaned boy.

"What? His Papa's dead?" said Lefou, stunned.

The two of them went to Gaston's room and opened the door.

The boy sat staring out the window, his back turned to them. His handsome face bore a hard, cold expression, his jaw muscles clenching.

"Gaston?"

"Sit by me, Lefou," Gaston said. It was a command, but a softer command than he was accustomed to. He kept his eyes on the window. Gentle flakes of snow continued to fall outside.

"Sure...sure I will." Lefou went over to his friend and climbed on the bed next to him. He nestled against his shoulder, careful to not touch his bad leg. "I'm so sorry, Gaston," he whispered to him.

"Don't be," he replied, his voice bitter.

Lefou slowly put his hand on Gaston's, first patting it, then holding it. He didn't pull away, so the gesture was all right with him.

"I think I want to go to sleep," Gaston said in a soft tone. He sunk down, careful as to not move his injured leg, until his head was on the pillow.

Lefou moved to a reclined position next to him, still clasping Gaston's hand. He watched over him in a quiet vigil, observing the fierce, fiery hazel eyes he loved so much blink several times. They finally closed, tearless, until his best friend was safe in slumber.

...


End file.
